Nameless by Julie Cooper

Chapter Eight

Islept poorly.

My first instinct had been to go to him regardless of the closed door between our rooms, but his desire to be left to himself was obvious. If our concerns had only involved furniture rearrangements, I would have. But I remembered, only too well, my own times of overarching grief, clouding my every thought. In those moments, I did not want Jane or my aunt; I did not want to have to be something for someone else. Not very often, or even for very long, but I had needed times of respite from the company of others.

Still, it was astonishing how quickly I had learned to expect him beside me as I slept. It did not occur to me until the morning that he might believe that if he was not in the mood for intimacies, he should not come. Well, that would be an awkward conversation.

I hoped, however, to speak to him a little at breakfast—not regarding bed-sport schedules—and urged Clara, the maid Mrs Reynolds had assigned me, to hurry.

Alas, I was disappointed, for he was not alone. The gentlemen stood when I entered the breakfast parlour, and he soberly introduced me to his steward—and second cousin—Richard Williams. Mr Williams was a paler version of Mr Darcy—thinner, with sideburns I thought overwhelmed his slender face, but of a similar height.

The men talked to each other like the old friends they plainly were. Mr Williams was a bit shy with me, clearly more comfortable in conversation with my husband. Still, I did my best to draw him out, until he finally eased his manner a little, asking after my family and Hertfordshire. He was perfectly pleasant, but I believed him happiest when the conversation veered back to plantings, orchards, and sheep.

“I have had a letter from Georgiana,” Mr Darcy announced as the meal concluded. “She and Mr Bingley will arrive this afternoon.”

“Oh,” I said, surprised. “Do they live nearby? The weather looks to be awful again.”

“Bingley purchased Haddon Hall two years ago. ’Tis but thirty miles of easy road.”

“Except for your drive,” I smiled.

Mr Williams frowned. “The drive should be in excellent condition. If you noticed anything amiss, that ought to be attended to—”

“My wife is teasing,” Mr Darcy said, for the first time looking at me directly with none of yesterday’s travail in his expression. “She does not care for the slope of the road, and suggested a tunnel be built through the hillside instead.” And he gave his small half-smile, one that meant he was remembering my little joke, perhaps with fondness. One that meant he was trying to re-establish our connexion. I returned it in full. We were both weary of distress and difficulty, I believed. We had come together to leave the past behind and start anew. I took heart in his farewell as he departed, for he bent to kiss my cheek. I did not need to be told that affectionate displays were unusual for him. Even Mr Williams looked a bit surprised, and then…affronted?

Mrs de Bourgh did not come down to breakfast, though I waited. I did not wish to put off a confrontation; as much as I sympathised with her grief, she could not be allowed to bully me or my servants. But it appeared she would hide from me, for now.

I noticed with pleasure that the library fire was already lit when I entered, as if in anticipation of my arrival there…and then was astonished to see that a desk—the writing desk—had been installed in a spot near the larger desk, a bit closer to the fireplace. When Mrs Reynolds entered with the tea I had requested, I asked her about it. She appeared a bit uncomfortable.

“We, all of us, have been too long accustomed to putting most decisions for the household before Mrs de Bourgh. When you asked Robert for the writing desk, he mentioned it to her, and she was distressed. I heard a fuss was made. Mr Darcy asked me last night if I knew what, exactly, you wanted done to the library, and I told him that, to the best of my knowledge, you only wanted this desk placed within it.”

Of course, servants always heard everything there was to hear; I had no doubt that Mrs Reynolds had discovered every word of Mr Darcy’s reprimand to me, which was a bit embarrassing. But there was nothing to be done about it.

“Did Mrs de Bourgh take charge of the house while Mrs Darcy was alive?” I asked. It would be helpful to know just how much authority the older woman habitually exercised. Yesterday, I think Mrs Reynolds might have evaded the question. But Mrs de Bourgh had made a tactical error in blaming one of her people for my mishap, and especially one of her most dependable ones.

“It is difficult to answer, Mrs Darcy. Not exactly, no. But Mrs de Bourgh was Mrs Darcy’s…voice, so to speak. She was always more fastidious, more exacting than Mrs Darcy, and dealt with details too insignificant to demand the mistress’s attention. I promise you, she has never before behaved in such a manner as yesterday.” She straightened. “But we have all been reminded that you are mistress of Pemberley now. It is to be hoped she will be able to quickly adapt to the changes.”

It was not precisely an apology, but then, Mrs Reynolds had not precisely done anything wrong. To her, Pemberley was mistress, and she had always done the best she could for her. Interesting too, that she had referred to Mrs de Bourgh as Anne Darcy’s ‘voice’. One could surmise that all plans and preferences, simple and affirming, came from the mistress, while her mother was responsible for the less desirable duties involving discipline and corrections. Clever, really. Without ever receiving a harsh word from Mrs Darcy, a strict order was maintained—and none would really blame Mrs de Bourgh for acting in her daughter’s place.

When Mrs Reynolds departed, I went to the writing desk, envisioning Mr Darcy here, directing the arrangement of the furniture. I opened the drawers, finding writing materials of excellent quality. There was also a piece of paper, folded in half. I picked it up, read it.

Forgive me.

It was unsigned, but the writing was unmistakeable. An apology from my husband.

* * *

I awaited the arrival of Mr and Mrs Bingley with anticipation, curiosity, and some nostalgia. Anticipation, because I remembered Mr Bingley as being sweet-tempered and amiable, and of course, I was anxious to meet my new sister. Curiosity, because naturally I wondered about the kind of man he had become, and I only had Mr Wickham’s word on the character of Mrs Bingley (which word was certainly unreliable). He had described her as proud and disagreeable, so she was likely humble and kindly. And nostalgia, oh yes. In many ways, Mr Bingley represented the close of a very happy chapter of my life—even my youth.

He had raised my sister’s hopes and then disappeared; she had suffered. But it was impossible to imagine her with any other than my brother Tilney, now. Looking back, we were all very young then. Even Mr Darcy, whom I was accustomed to believing so much my senior, had only been eight and twenty—my current age. It did not seem so very elderly and mature to me now.

Mr Darcy met me in the green parlour just as Robert gave word that the Bingley carriage was at the top of the drive. I hoped he had not been avoiding me, but since his hair was damp and curling at the ends, it was more likely he had arrived home from his engagement with Mr Williams only just in time to ready himself for the Bingley arrival. I reached my hand towards him, and he took mine in his, squeezing reassuringly. Together we walked out onto the portico; the rain was coming down in sheets. A footman held a large umbrella over the lady, and they dashed up the steps. She was laughing as they neared us, and she threw herself into her brother’s arms, heedless of the damp.

“Fitzwilliam! I know I should have waited, as it was a terrible drive and I am sure our coachman will not forgive me for ever so long if he takes a chill, but I was so happy to hear your news!”

While she spoke, Mr Bingley approached. “Mr and Mrs Darcy! Ho-ho!” he said, laughing also, while my husband herded us all indoors before we allowed in any more of the damp and wind. Then there was a flurry of coat-taking and more greetings and moving into the welcome warmth of the green parlour.

But once we were seated, there was an uncomfortable pause while Mr Darcy had a word with the butler. Mrs Bingley looked flushed and rather helpless—as I would later learn, conversation with unfamiliar persons was difficult for her. Mr Bingley simply stared at me for a few moments before finally seeming to realise the gap. And then he put his foot in it.

“How is all your family?” he cried, with that familiar good-natured cheer. “And Longbourn, such a pretty property, as I remember it. All are well?”

Mr Darcy joined us in time to hear his question. “Her parents died nearly eight years ago, Bingley. Lady Matlock’s idiot vicar—do you remember the one? Collins?—inherited.” He spoke, not coldly, but in a controlled way that suggested some annoyance. “I believe I mentioned it at the time.”

Mr Bingley flushed. “Did you? My deepest condolences, Mrs Darcy.”

I was a little slow to respond—I was so astonished that Mr Darcy had known of the death of my parents when it happened, and that it meant at least enough, in the moment, to repeat the news. He had told me he’d heard it from Lady Matlock; he had not mentioned just when she had told him. But of course, Mr Collins held the Matlock living when my father died, and she would have known.

But it was all beside the point. If Mr Bingley had known back then of Jane’s loss, did that not mean he had never, truly, been in love with her? He might have called upon her with a friend’s concern, or, even if not willing to raise her hopes at such a time…he might have, at least, remembered it happened at all. Jane, of course, no longer felt anything towards him—but she could always recall when she had.

“I am so sorry, too,” Mrs Bingley put in, gamely trying to cover his blunder. “I lost my parents when I was young. It was very difficult.”

I smiled at her with genuine warmth. “It was long ago now.” As I drew her out with gentle questioning, she shed some of her shyness, telling me of a redecorating project she had undertaken, of a play in London they attended, and of horses they were breeding.

Mr Darcy and Mr Bingley discussed plantings and fields, crops and yields, with all the enthusiasm my father once showed for such subjects. I stole occasional looks at them, cataloguing their differences.

Mr Bingley was not much changed, except his waist had thickened, while the rest of him remained slender, giving his limbs a stick-like appearance. Mr Tilney was not at all slim, but he was…proportional, strong and fit. Mr Darcy was of an athletic build, with not an ounce of extra flesh. I did not, usually, dwell upon his appearance; when I looked at him, it was not to enumerate his flaws or perfections, but at certain moments, his beauty struck me.

Mrs Bingley might have caught my glances, for she smiled wistfully. “I ought not to have come so soon, when you have been home only a few days. I knew I should have waited. But I was so eager to see my brother happy again, as if a new marriage could—” She stopped suddenly, looking stricken, as if she had spoken out of turn.

“All is well, Mrs Bingley,” I reassured her. “I know he has had a terrible loss, and it will take time to recover from it. I also know that there is no cure for grief, and I cannot and do not expect his feelings for his first wife to be subsumed by feelings for his new one.”

She reached out and took my hand. “Please, call me Georgiana. We are sisters now,” she said. “And I am certain to grow wiser in marriage just by listening to you.”

“Oh, yes, most certainly you should come to me for advice. After all, I have been married for almost three weeks,” I said, laughing gaily. “I believe you are the expert in the room, my dear, for all my great age.”

I expected her to laugh too, but she did not. Instead, she glanced over at her husband, and there was both sorrow and bitterness in her look. “I am afraid I have none to give,” she said, her voice small.

A terrible sorrow filled me, and I was not even sure why. I did not know her at all, and barely knew her husband. But I had esteemed him once, and had no wish for his unhappiness despite the pain Jane had suffered. And, as Georgiana had pointed out, we were to be sisters. It seemed to me a tragedy almost, as if a cherished memory became only a pretence. The men continued talking about farming; Mr Darcy made a remark and Mr Bingley laughed at it, neither paying any attention to the sudden seriousness of our conversation.

“You will give me your opinions regardless,” I urged, “and I will try and heed them. And although I am so inexperienced, I will tell you what I think, too. We will be friends as well as sisters, shall we not? I have never been married, but I watched my parents, who seldom understood each other, and I watched my aunt and uncle, who had a wonderful accord. Neither marriage was ‘easy’ because such a connexion never is, though one was much happier than the other. It takes courage to be a wife.”

She dropped her gaze. “Perhaps it takes more courage to refuse to be one.”

Had she never loved Mr Bingley, then? How sad—to choose a path as Charlotte had done, without the strength of will to endure the consequences. However, Mr Bingley was no Collins. There must be something that could be made of him.

And so, to make her laugh, I told her of my ridiculous cousin, and his ridiculous opinions and finally, his ridiculous marriage proposal. And she did laugh aloud; I saw both men’s gazes swing sharply towards her, as if it were not a usual sound. And I laughed, too—the memory had long since lost its power to mortify—and I knew we would be friends. As we talked and grew to know one another a bit, I discovered her birthday was the same month as Lydia’s. They were—or would have been—so close in age. I will look after you, my sister, I silently vowed, as I had never managed to do for the one I had lost.

* * *

Our guests easily agreed to stay the night and then the rest of the week, or at least until the weather improved. Mrs de Bourgh joined us for dinner, which was somewhat of a damper on the meal, I thought, as she had little to add except disapproving looks. Georgiana, in her shy way, tried to bring her into the conversation, but she answered the polite questions with clipped responses designed to put off the questioner. She did not join us in the parlour after we separated from the men, but excused herself to her rooms, claiming a megrim. The mood improved after her departure, and when the gentlemen re-joined us, we were quite the convivial little group. It was late when we retired at last.

Clara was brushing out my hair—never an easy task—when my husband entered my dressing room. It surprised her into dropping the brush.

“Never mind it,” he said. “You may retire for the night, Clara.”

“Yes, sir,” she murmured, almost scampering out the door.

I sighed. As happy as I was that he had come, I wished it had been fifteen minutes later. I could brush out and braid my own hair, had done so for years—but having my own maid to do it for me was a definite source of happiness allotted to Mrs Darcy.

To my astonishment, however, he picked up the brush as I reached for it, and nudged me back to face the mirror. And then, he began brushing my hair. I felt oddly shy, wondering, at first, if this was a task he once performed for his first wife. But his strokes were tentative; of course, her hair had been smooth, and doubtlessly much easier to cope with. The tendrils of my hair reached out wildly, as if to drag the brush from his clutch.

“You will not hurt me. My hair takes on a life of its own if it is not braided at night.”

He did not answer, and after a time, I realised the strokes were not from a hairbrush, but from his fingers combing the thick locks. I began to be calmer, easier, as he ran his hands through the masses, as he massaged my scalp; it felt wondrous, blissful. He stopped, finally, and I sighed, leaning back against him.

I tilted my head up to meet his eyes. “I shall braid it now,” I said.

“I would prefer you did not,” he murmured. “I have wanted to see it like this, touch it like this, for years.”

I thought he was joking. “You mean weeks,” I teased. “Without assistance, I can only keep it in the severest style, such as I wore at Rosings.”

“No,” he refuted, looking at my reflection in the glass. “At Netherfield. Almost as soon as I came to know you. I wanted to gather it up in my fists, bury my face within it.” He matched word to action, shocking me. And then he swept me up within his arms; he did not bring me to my chamber but to his.

I was overwhelmed—to know he had thought of me with anything except contempt, the idea that he had looked upon me with desire, was shocking to me. He laid me on the bed, but I sat up. “I thought you hated me, hated all of us! You left—”

He stopped my words with kisses, frantic ones, but I broke free, putting my hands up to his face, his jaw stubbled and rough underneath them. The dusky firelight cast his face in shadow, but his eyes were haunted. I could almost feel his misery, even. Did he feel guilty for the desire he had now for his new wife?

For one moment, I thought of him in that great stately bed in the cliffside wing, surrounded by gold and white satin and blood-red flowers, a masterful lover with a different woman, a King William with his Mary. I shoved the thoughts from my head.

“I am not that young girl any longer,” I whispered, apologetic, trying to smile. “Though she and I do both have unmanageable hair.”

For long moments, he said nothing. He made no move to begin kissing me again. I did want his passion, almost desperately. If I could not have his love, I wanted this. But he must see me; he must give himself to me.

“I hope I am different, now, too,” he replied, finally.

I felt a measure of relief. “You are my husband, for one thing.”

“So I am,” he said, and it seemed the shadows lifted just a little.

Earlier, I could not imagine saying this, but now it seemed safe—if still a bit discomfiting. “On those nights when we are bickering, or you need to be alone, I think…I mean, I would wish…that we bid each other a goodnight, even so.” He looked a bit startled, so I blurted out the rest. “You need not come to me only when you wish to…that is, I have become accustomed, although we have not been married long, to—” I stumbled with my words, more flustered with the saying of them than I expected, finding myself flushing.

He smiled fully, kissing me again, but in a gentler, slower fashion. “You would like us to sleep together, even when your husband has behaved like an ass?”

“Especially then,” I nodded. “Or if I have.” I wrapped my arms around his neck, feeling us fit together fully, hard and soft, male and female. “It does not always have to be…this. But if you would not rather, or need time alone, you must say so.”

“I have been alone enough,” he said, his voice gruff. And when he began the loving again, he was himself, urgent, passionate and wonderful, the despair fading back into the past where it belonged.